Upon the Grave
by CuttySark
Summary: I-58 and USS Indianapolis confronting each other.


Rows of gravestones lined a field of well-manicured grass over rolling hills and valleys, their white marble surfaces reflecting the prime sunset like little lamps guiding visitors towards the center of the ground. Well, if there were visitors. As well guarded the capital of the US was, most of the civilians were naturally already evacuated, leaving those with little time and sentiment to visit a memorial graveyard. Still, the Arlington served as a reminder of the abundant wealth of the country, or alternatively, their misplaced priorities, given that the place was just as well maintained as it was before the world went to hell.

These gravestones were simple, well maintained as they were. Containing almost nothing of the identities of those who were buried beneath. Only names, ranks and dates, no flowers nor flairs, and as a certain submarine walking by found really interesting, no crosses.

"Americans have many gods, just like us." Goya mumbled in perhaps an overly simplistic observation as she walked by the sunset-dyed marbles in her civilian outfit; a pink windbreaker, a skirt, a pair of low-heeled boots she'd got as a gift, and hoses for warmth. Her sense of fashion clashed horribly with the somber atmosphere of the almost abandoned place, and she's completely aware of it, giving her the feeling that she didn't belong. For a moment she thought that something was staring disapprovingly at her back, she turned around, saw nothing, and shivered.

"Cremation is the best, after all." she grit her teeth, trying to not imagine bodies rotting under the dirt.

"Hey, you."

Goya turned around and thought she saw a ghost.

The girl wore a long, flowing white skirt, completely hiding her legs and making it seemed as if she was gliding over the ground. Her dark skin and contrasting white-pink hair didn't help in affirming that she was not, in fact, a supernatural being, neither did her demonic looking heterochromic eyes.

"I know you, don't I?"

The girl walked forward, making Goya took an unconscious step back. She noticed that the girl was holding a purse. Why would a ghost be wielding a purse?

"Fifty-Eight." The girl said. Her voice was crisp and clear, almost jarringly sophisticated. It took Goya a second before she realized that the girl was calling her name.

Goya closed her eyes, ignoring the cues of her fleshy eyes. Almost immediately her mind gave her the vision of a warship. It was clear that the girl was not human, but neither was she a ghost.

"Are you...a New Mexico class?" Goya guessed.

"A Portland class, actually."

"Ah...I see." A Portland? Could it be? Could fate really be this...humorous?

"So...are you Portland?"

"No." The girl swiftly denied.

So fate indeed had a sense of humor.

The girl continued to stare at Goya with her blue and gold eyes. Her expression was unreadable. Was it curiosity Goya saw? Or was it silent rage? Given their history Goya expected the latter, but her body language was so serene that the Japanese girl felt nothing threatening in the air. Of course, it all could be a guise. For all she knew the girl was hiding a knife.

"What are you doing here?" Indianapolis asked, surprising Goya out of the blue.

"Er...I thought I could find his grave here…" Goya answered sheepishly.

"His?" Indianapolis asked inquisitively.

"Er...you know. Your captain." Goya looked down, trying hard to endure the inherent awkwardness of the situation. What were the chances that she'd meet the girl that was responsible for turning her country into a nuclear helhole? Right at this spot and right at this moment? The more Goya thought about it the more it sounded ridiculous.

"Then you're in the wrong place. His ashes were spread over the coast of Louisiana. Only his father is buried here."

"Oh." Goya looked down, dejected. "Ah, right. Americans often use the same names over and over, huh?" she nodded, cursing her forgetfulness and lack of meticulousness. How hard was it to differentiate 'II' and 'III'?

"Louisiana...I don't think I'd be able to go there anytime soon."

"What were you planning to do?" Indianapolis asked, her voice cold, even, and completely unreadable.

"Ah well…" Goya scratched her back. The stare of the girl that she suspected wanted her dead was starting to make her nervous. "You see, um...I've got some days off, which were rare for us submarines...so I thought I'd pay my respect." she tried to force a smile at the end, but only managed a nearly imperceptible grin.

Indianapolis stared judgingly, and Goya put on her sincerest face. Something bad would probably happen to her if the heavy cruiser thought she was lying.

"Are you free tomorrow?" Indianapolis suddenly asked, which Goya answered almost by reflex.

"Well, they gave me a week free...and I'm only in my third day."

"Would you like to meet me tomorrow then?"

"Huh?" Goya tilted her head, not sure if she was hearing right.

"It's been a while. Isn't it about time you and I have a talk?" Indianapolis flashed a smile at the end of her sentence, a smile that's both sad and reassuring and making Goya confused as hell.

"I..!" Goya stuttered, utterly she had not expected to be invited in such a way. "I think I can manage."

"Then could you meet me at the Sakura garden tomorrow at five? The one close to the Jefferson Memorial?"

"That would be appropriate...I think." Goya said, trying to remember her map. Her hotel was in northern Virginia, so she had to go early.

"Good, I'll be waiting." She said as she turned around. But just as she started walking, she turned back.

"By the way, Fifty-Eight?"

"Y-Yeah?"

"No need to be afraid. I'm not planning to kill you or anything."

"R...right."

Indianapolis gave a small polite smile and a respectful wave, before moving on and leaving the confused Goya behind.

"Whew…" wiping cold sweat from her brow, Goya took a moment to calm herself. After almost half a minute of various breathing exercises, she put one hand into her jacket's pocket, pulling out a miniature sailor. It was a simple, hand-made thing carved from a single piece of wood using a utility knife and painted with the spare base paints from the armory. Goya had tried her best to emulate the dress uniform of an Imperial Navy officer, but she'd be the first to admit that she wasn't the best artist.

Goya looked down upon the black, beady eyes of her handicraft and smiled.

"I guess you'd be staying with me a little while longer, friend."


End file.
